


The Glory of Rome

by Jaune_Chat



Series: Gladiator 'Verse [3]
Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, Alternate Universe - Gladiators, Alternate Universe - Historical, Ancient Rome, Angst, Consensual Incest, Dubious Consent, F/F, F/M, Gen, Gladiators, Hopeful Ending, Incest, M/M, Multi, Orgy, Sibling Incest, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-11
Updated: 2011-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-24 18:32:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4930615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaune_Chat/pseuds/Jaune_Chat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Peter and Nathan attract the attention of the mad Emperor Sylar, they hope to distract his attention from Nathan’s daughter Claire, to keep him from taking her gift. But Peter realizes that the price for saving not just his brother’s child, but all of Rome, might be in his hands. And the price is something he isn’t sure he’ll be able to pay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to BrightEyedJill for betaing.
> 
> Originally posted at my LiveJournal - [here](http://jaune-chat.livejournal.com/130395.html).

Peter firmly shut the door behind Nathan, making certain the hallway beyond was silent before turning into the solid comfort of Nathan’s body. He smelled of clean sweat and leather oil, along with the hint of dust and dirt from the training yards they’d crossed to get to Bennet’s weapon room. Groaning softly, Nathan crushed Peter to him, their body heat pooling in the sultry air.

Neither spoke; it was part of their ritual, both out of fear of discovery and fear of saying something they could not take back. Peter turned in Nathan’s grasp, holding the wood of the weapons’ rack for support as he felt hard flesh pressing against his body. His will was gone as soon as he felt Nathan pressing against him, his hand shifting Peter’s tunic aside, and oil-slick fingers preparing him briefly. 

Peter felt his body awaken, singing at Nathan’s touch, along with the inevitable arousing stab of shame. If the gods had been kind, Nathan would have been with Meredith as his wife, and Peter would have been only his brother, his friend, his companion-in-arms, but not this. Not his lover, his brother’s lover, more wife to Nathan than Meredith ever could be.

Thought and shame fled when Nathan pushed into him, his hardness sliding deep, Peter’s body welcoming him in. Like a wine-soaked barbarian, Peter felt addicted to the sensation: Nathan’s barely-audible groans of arousal, his heat and strength pushing Peter to his peak. It was fast, always had to be fast, but Peter felt the pleasure breaking inside him like a flood as Nathan sighed contentedly in his ear. Peter shivered as Nathan pulled away, and then quickly grabbed damp rags to cleanse themselves. Even this, hiding away the evidence from their tryst, was part of what they shared, intimate and close as life and death. They could not afford to be careless, not when the stakes were so very high.

They needed this togetherness, Peter even more than ever since their visit to the High Priest of Jupiter’s home. Though Nathan did not remember, and Peter was almost grateful that he didn’t, he felt a strong need of reassurance because Peter had a feeling that the Emperor was not going to take the High Priest’s word, even if it came from the gods themselves. The Emperor had taken a personal interest in Bennet’s stable; such interest would not go away at the urging of one man.

Wordlessly, Peter and Nathan gathered up the weapons they would need for sparring, and emerged back into the sun-drenched training yards.

\-----

Bennet watched his stable spar with his arms crossed, his neutral expression giving nothing away. He might have been pleased at their performance, worried about an upcoming match, or thinking about what his wife was making for dinner. 

Peter had given up on trying to read Bennet’s inscrutable face years ago. He simply concentrated on flipping his sword from one hand to another, on strengthening his off-hand bladework. Surprise was an advantage in the arena, and those that expected him to rely solely on his powers would get a nasty surprise. The newest bunch of slaves was about to hit the sands, and the gods only knew what they’d heard of him, his family, and the rest of his stable. Probably that they could breathe fire or burrow through the earth or some such nonsense. 

But Peter knew that the combination of true fighting panache with their gods-touched gifts would give the crowd something to cheer about. One of the new German slaves did something very dramatic with axes that would be excellent pained against Peter or Monica or Knox. Peter switched his sword hand again, and danced through another series of lunges and thrusts. Twice more through the exercise, and Bennet gestured sharply for him to rest. Peter went to get a drink of water from the tall jar by the shaded wall, cooling his sweat as he watched Nathan and Flint wrestle. Though Flint was younger and more heavily muscled, Nathan knew how to get the best leverage out of every hold.

“Peter.”

Peter jumped when Bennet appeared at his elbow as if conjured there. 

“Dominus,” Peter said respectfully, inclining his head.

“Somehow you managed to save your Claire from the fire only to jump into it yourself.”

Peter felt a stab of fear in his stomach before he realized Bennet did not look nearly as distraught as he had the night Claire had been summoned by the Emperor.

“The Emperor has asked to see a private showing of our stable. He particularly wanted to see you and Nathan spar in front of his… private court.”

Peter bit his lip. “The Children of Proserpina?”

Bennet nodded. “Amongst others. His collection of slaves from exotic lands. Celebrated artisans. Priests. Nobles. The Master of Revels. You will make a good impression. I expect nothing but the best from you.” That was said with simple conviction, as if Bennet were commenting on the color of the sky.

Peter only bowed in response, his mind ablaze with the possibilities. Fighting in front of such a powerful crowd could gain him and his brother the kind of golden reward they might otherwise be another ten years in gathering… if the gods were kind. But the Emperor was not often kind.

“You, your brother, and I will go tomorrow morning. The others will join us later,” Bennet continued.

“The Emperor…” Peter hesitated, uncertain of what to ask. 

Bennet’s face remained calm, but his voice was grave as he spoke. “The gods-touched powers the Emperor does not claim for himself, he likes to keep near. Powers run thick in his court. His revels and orgies are the stuff of legend. What he could not get from you by law he may convince you of in pleasure. His passions are enough to move mountains, so it is said. He may try to consume you, as he consumed the Children of Proserpina.” 

“Dominus, how did he consume them?” Peter asked with quiet urgency. A thrill of pleasure from this morning’s tryst with Nathan still sang along his nerves, and Bennet’s bare-bones description of the Emperor’s lusts painted an enticing picture in his mind, as much dangerous as it was pleasurable. But Peter was a gladiator; pleasure and danger were fiercely intertwined in his mind and heart.

“I do not know. But the Master of Revels once told me some of their tale. Their powers made them dangerous as the Queen of the Dead, and no one could go near them and live. Yet they desired only to live in peace. The Emperor’s generals would have killed them, but the Emperor was intrigued by them. I am told he sequestered himself with them in a temple for a week. After that, they are as you see them now,” Bennet said. On the sands, Nathan reversed a hold Flint had on him, twisting so Flint could not try to burn him, and pulled tight. Gasping, Flint coughed his surrender, and Nathan released him. Bennet gestured for them both to retire to the sidelines, and signaled Elle and Claire to take their places.

“Is that how he dominated all of those gods-touched in his service?” Peter asked quietly.

“Perhaps.” Bennet looked over Flint and Nathan as Elle and Claire circled each other, looking for an opening. Flint was favoring his right arm, but Nathan still looked ready to take on all comers. 

“Have you told Nathan yet?” Peter asked. Nathan seemed too calm to have held back such momentous news this morning.

“I told your brother what he needed to know. He must be confident and charming, with proper respect, but show no fear. Fear for you will make Nathan foolish. Your fear for him also makes you foolish, but strong. Your power gives you the edge of unpredictability. If you must, use that.”

Peter swallowed. Bennet knew him too well. He’d given himself and all his secrets away to the High Priest of Jupiter to save both Claire’s life and his brother’s honor, and would do it again in a heartbeat. 

“Your fate is uncertain in the Emperor’s hands. Were it any other patron…”

“I understand,” Peter said, his mouth dry despite the drink of water. 

“Of everyone here, you have been with me the longest. I watched you grow from a boy to the man you are today. I do not wish to lose you.”

Peter was speechless for a moment with Bennet’s unexpected kindnesss. “I have nothing but praise for you. You have been good to my family.”

Bennet nodded. “As you have been to mine. We are well-regarded and wealthy due to you and your kin. Did you know my wife used to make your tunics when you were small?”

Peter smiled slightly. Lady Sandra rarely came to the arena, but the few times she had, she’d been exceptionally kind. “I didn’t know.”

“My first batch of slaves was a gamble. But my son now hopes to continue in the business someday.”

“I haven’t seen him…” Peter said, trying to recall the last time he’d seen Lyle in the arena.

Bennet’s neutral expression softened slightly. “I have let him run off all the joys and indolence of youth. He will learn soon.”

Peter supposed he might have felt some jealousy for Lyle. After all, Peter’s youth had been stolen when the slavers had captured him and his brother. Claire had never really had a proper childhood, only learning joy in her labor and purpose. But Bennet knew that. A former gladiator himself, he hoped to give his son a better life than his own. It would be years more before Peter had enough wealth to retire alongside his family. Better to stay with Bennet and his son, where there was trust and understanding.

It might be possible to throw himself upon the Emperor’s favor to gain that precious freedom before a bad fight brought Peter’s death or a crippling injury. But that favor could lead to death as easily as the bloody sands.

“I’m glad,” Peter said respectfully. “I know you’ll teach him well.”

“Do you remember the Master of Revels?” Bennet asked.

Peter wracked his brain for the name; Nathan would have remembered it sooner. 

“…Samuel,” he said at length. Peter recalled a thin, crane-like man with a lined face and intense eyes, his hand moving expressively as he tried to convey some elaborate entertainment to Bennet some years ago. Samuel rarely interacted with the gladiators directly.

“Yes. He will be watching you. He directs the Emperor’s entertainments.”

“Does he share the Emperor’s appetites?” Peter asked. _Are there any potential allies in the Emperor’s court?_ he thought.

Bennet smiled grimly in understanding. “To a point. If he didn’t have some similar tastes, he would have been replaced years ago. But he must be more cautious than the Emperor. All in the Emperor’s court are decadent, Peter. Jaded. Fresh blood excites them. Remember that.”

Peter felt his blood quicken as if before a fight as Bennet turned his attention back to his gladiators. 

\-----

If the home of High Priest Parkman had been overwhelming, the Emperor’s palace was impossible. The glimpses of royal luxury Peter had glimpsed in the Emperor’s arena box over the past few years were insignificant compared to the size, the grandeur, the luxury, and the sheer, mind-numbing expense he could see just in the entrance hall. Bennet had been allowed to come with them, which made Peter only mildly less nervous. Nathan, as far as he could tell, was taking this all much better than he was. Like Bennet, he kept up a determinedly neutral façade, sober, appropriately impressed but without gaping like a rustic. Peter wished he had that kind of gift of mimicry. A pity only his power was so obliging.

All three were whisked inside by slaves the moment they set foot on the ground. They found themselves stripped, washed, oiled, scraped, and garbed in fresh robes before Peter could even blink. He had been more than a little bewildered by the treatment, Nathan the same but hiding it, but Bennet had slipped one of the bath attendants, a young, slender, dark-haired lass, a small but heavy purse as they were offered clean sandals to complete their outfits.

“My thanks, Gretchen,” he said in an undertone. 

She smiled at him, the purse vanishing as she knelt to tie their sandals with a care for the drape of their robes.

“Don’t look the Emperor in the eyes until he commands you,” she whispered to Peter.

“Praise to your daughter for her excellent first fight,” Gretchen said, turning to Nathan, adulation in her eyes. But not for Nathan; Peter could spot that immediately. It seemed his brother’s child had attracted more admirers than just the Emperor.

“I will tell her,” Nathan said solemnly. Blushing, Gretchen slipped from the room, leaving Bennet alone with his fighters for a moment.

“If you thought the High Priest of Jupiter was a challenge, that is nothing compared to what is going to happen. We had faint power over the priest, as he desired you. But the Emperor can do far worse to you, in the name of the Empire, should he choose to change your fate. I cannot help you outside the arena walls, except to try to speak for you. If he tells me to be silent, you will be on your own. Do you understand?” Bennet said sternly, looking down at Nathan and Peter. He seemed as regal as one of the great statues commissioned for war heroes and great statesmen, and about as immovable as the marble they were carved from.

Peter bowed his head in acknowledgement and Nathan nodded sharply. Footsteps sounded behind Bennet, and he turned to see another slave had arrived to see them to the Emperor’s presence. She was tall, with skin the color of fine sandstone and thick, dark wiry hair that clouded around her head. Probably from one of the northern African provinces, or shipped there from farther south, the woman was as beautifully garbed as many women of means that came to bet on the arena fights. It seemed even slaves in the Emperor’s service could hold their own with prosperous freedmen. 

“Come,” the woman said imperiously, gesturing for them to follow. Peter was concentrating too hard on not tripping in robes far more voluminous than his norm to make conversation. Then he caught sight of vastness of the palace and even that worry simply fell away. Mosaics and frescos decorated the walls with consummate artistry, depicting the halls of the gods, of victories of Rome, of the vastness of the Empire. Huge windows were softened by silken curtains that could have been used for a dozen robes each, but here were clearly counted as nothing more than a simple drape. 

Nathan finally began to look nervous, which perversely made Peter feel better. Bennet remained as expressionless as marble, but there was a set to his eyes that Peter remembered seeing when one of the stable was up against a difficult or dangerous opponent. Peter let a small shudder wrack him as the slave led them towards a room that teemed with people, music, the smells of perfumes and fine foods, as well as an aura of both power and terror that hit him like a punch to the stomach.

The Emperor held court in a room that was the height of decadent richness. Padded couches and pillows softened the floors, more silken hangings obscured the full size of the place. Frescos covered the walls, exquisite sculptures adorned odd nooks. A dozen or more people, finely dressed and attended by slaves, both ornamented the room and added to the aura of power. Some were priests, others must have held high office in some other regard, their jewelry enough to drown them in their baths. And, on a dais on the far end of the room, Emperor Sylar himself. His robes were richly purple, his crown of golden laurel leaves gleamed in the afternoon sunlight. The Children of Proserpina, their sober robes marking them apart, sat on a step just below him, entwined with each other. A pale young man with red-brown hair and a round face, dressed in little but a loin cloth, was holding the Emperor’s cup for him to sip. Judging by the Emperor’s hand on the boy’s thigh, cups weren’t the only thing he routinely bore. 

Peter was used to men and women of power looking at him with lust; while Bennet tried to keep his stable free of most power games, he couldn’t deny his free gladiators a chance to better their lot by sharing their favors. The High Priest of Jupiter had only been the latest of many who’d wanted Peter, or his brother. The sudden stares of the nobility didn’t bother him. Indeed, it gave him a point of reference, a sudden burst of familiarity. With that emotional security, the intimidation of his surroundings fell away, and for the first time in a week, Peter felt in control again. He’d sacrifice to Fortuna for Bennet’s continued luck. Blessings of the gods be upon him for giving them all the armor of fine clothing, so they would not be dressed more meanly than the slaves. Even in unfamiliar garb, Peter felt as if he could handle the Emperor’s attention now.

Nathan brought his chin up, assuming authority that he did not have, and walked into the room confidently, a mere half-step behind Bennet. Peter took his cue, and raised his eyes slightly, enough to at least imitate his brother. They walked past the assembled nobles, and Peter’s attention was directed to one person or another by subtle twitches of Bennet’s fingers. A beautiful, flaxen-haired woman, her silken hair cascading down her back, could only be Niki, the courtesan that Hawkins had found favor with. The dark-haired bulk of High Priest Parkman dominated his part of the room, and his smile was knowing as Nathan and Peter passed him. Peter felt sweat beginning to bead on his forehead at the priest’s glance. Nearer the dais was a tall, thin man, his hair just beginning to gray, his hands elegant and graceful. This man was one Peter recognized instantly: Samuel, the Emperor’s Master of Revels. He was the one who determined the fights in the arena, the order, the style, and any surprises there would be along the way. Claire’s dramatically uneven first fight had been partially his doing, along with Imperial whim. 

The female slave led the small group near the Emperor’s dais, then paused, bowing before making her way through the filmy curtains that obscured the innermost circle from the rest of the court. Nathan and Peter waited as length as the Emperor spoke softly, the woman listening attentively. Bennet’s attention was not on the Emperor, but rather the Master of Revels, every motion he made under that hard gaze. Perhaps there were answers there that Peter simply couldn’t see. Perhaps Bennet didn’t want the Emperor to catch his eye, a not unreasonable notion. The woman abruptly straightened and came to the edge of the dais. 

“I am Simone and the Emperor directs me to speak with his words. He greets you and bids you welcome to his court. He has watched you both for years, and has found you entertaining. It seems you are both beloved by the gods. Honor to you for finding favor amongst the divine. We are blessed to have you here. Will you bout here and now, to show your blessings to the powerful of Rome?”

“We are yours to command,” Peter and Nathan said as one, saluting like soldiers, fist to chest.

“Bennet, show us your prizes.”

Bennet gestured to them to come closer. “He is stable enough today,” he murmured.

Peter realized Bennet’s seeming distraction was instead him gathering information from the other courtiers through glance and gesture. Nathan only nodded in comprehension, wariness showing through his cooler façade. More slaves appeared, ready to divest Peter and Nathan of their garments.

“Wrestle, now, and give them a show. Pray they don’t bay for blood.”

Peter didn’t let his worry show, putting on his arena mien of aggressive sternness, learned from Nathan at a tender age. He wasn’t worried about the fight, not even as the courtiers formed the circle around them, eagerly placing bets as to the outcome. They ogled him openly now, something so common he didn’t even think about it. The nakedness didn’t bother him; he trained in next to nothing quite often. No, he worried only about Nathan.

And from Nathan’s current stone-faced demeanor, he was equally worried. The oil from the baths glistened on his body, outlining every muscle, reminding him inexorably of the High Priest’s chamber.

Peter bit his lip as Nathan lowered himself his stance, and mirrored him exactly. Bennet shouted, and the match began. Nathan ducked in low, catching Peter around the neck and side, and jammed his hip into his side to try to twist him over. Their skin slid across each other, Nathan intensely warm, and Peter grunted as he tried to keep his balance. He kept his mind on unpleasant things to stave off the inevitable reaction, and widened his stance. Twisting like an eel, he slid out of Nathan’s hold and locked arms with him, wanting to try to throw him from a distance rather than having to grapple too close.

Bennet rarely set the brothers to wrestle against each other; they knew each other’s styles too well to learn much from each other, and Peter hadn’t had to hold back while being this close to Nathan in years. Nathan’s arms trembled with the strain as he resisted against Peter’s hold, and then he ducked his head and tackled Peter low. Nathan’s body was plastered against his and he tried to force Peter on his back. Years of intimacy yelled for Peter to arch against Nathan’s touch, but self-preservation made him writhe until he was on his stomach.

Belatedly he realized how poor a decision that was as he felt Nathan’s member begin to swell against the skin of his buttocks. Cursing mentally, Peter grabbed Nathan’s arm and pulled, digging in his fingernails. With a shout, Nathan pulled free, and both brothers rolled and came to their feet, flushed and sweating, hard and erect. His self-control was not usually so poor, nor was Nathan’s, but this was not the familiar confines of the arena training yards, nor did they have the extra incentive of the other gladiators being nearby to kill their desire. They were in the decadent court of the Emperor, a place exquisitely suited for what they dared not show. Yelling, Peter feinted to the right and came in low and to the left, driving for Nathan’s knee. Pain was the only thing he could think of to break the inevitable spell they had on each other.

Nathan, unfortunately, was ready for him. Too fierce a competitor to wait, he caught Peter in mid-lunge and drove him to the floor, hard. Peter moved with the lunge and flipped Nathan with an adroit flick of thigh and hip, stifling a gasp as they contacted briefly. Nathan took advantage, the briefest of apologetic expressions on his face as he continued the roll until Peter was on his back, and forced his shoulders to contact with the floor with the simple expedient of pressing his cock tight against Peter’s belly.

There was applause as Peter beat his hand on the floor in submission, not daring the match to go on for another second, and gracious compliments to Bennet for the fine showing. But such grace must mask barbs, even Peter knew that. He scrambled to his feet, putting an appropriate distance between him and his brother. His arousal faded quickly when he saw something briefly break through Bennet’s cool façade, a hint of sadness and resignation. Peter felt a chill, and kept his head bowed. Under the cover of his eyelashes, he peered at the Emperor, obscured by the filmy drapes, and thought he saw an avidity there that frightened him.

“Such… eagerness is commendable, Bennet. I don’t recall seeing two such finer specimens,” Samuel said.

“Nathan and Peter are excellent examples of my stable, Samuel, as you well know. Perhaps the court would care to see more of my gladiators? They are prepared to fight for your entertainment this afternoon.”

Bennet caught the courtiers’ attention, directing it away from the brothers, letting them escape back to the bathing chamber under the direction of more slaves. Gretchen attended them as they quickly cooled their sweat and ardor, her expression alive with curiosity.

“Your daughter is to come?” she asked eagerly. Nathan nodded, still seemingly a bit stunned. “Could I meet her?”

“You admire her,” Nathan stated, father’s pride coming to the forefront. He was quick to use her conversation to bring any potential topic to a safer ground.

“I was attending Lady Niki during her first fight. I saw everything. I overheard the Lady’s companions say she was worth her weight in gold.”

It was as if a cold wind had touched Peter’s spine. Claire was far from safe, even with everything he had done so far.

“To any father, his children are precious,” Nathan said. “But I will try to see you get a chance to speak after the fight.”

“That’ll be soon, Nathan,” Peter said quickly, and turned to grab his armor from yet more slaves. “We have to be ready. For anything.”

Nathan’s eyes were shadowed as he rose, and did not lose their troubled look as he armored himself for the Emperor’s pleasure. The slaves departed the chamber when the last of their fighting leathers had arrived, granting the two brothers a moment of privacy.

“I’m sorry,” Nathan burst out, reaching out to touch Peter on the shoulder, lightly, as if afraid to start something he wouldn’t be able to stop. “I had to end it quickly.”

Peter let out a breath of relief, and leaned into Nathan’s touch, the only physical apology he dared to express. “The Emperor was watching us. And Bennet saw,” he warned.

“Everyone saw,” Nathan said harshly. “They can think what they want. If they’ve seen any other match, they know it’s not uncommon for men to become hard. Bennet knows that; he can explain.”

“Bennet knows _us_ ,” Peter pointed out. A shadow of uncertainty passed over Nathan’s face, and then he hardened his expression.

“We can give them something else to think about.” Decisively, Nathan tightened the laces on his armor and brought his head up. “Let’s give them a show.”

Peter finished armoring himself and followed Nathan out, foreboding still nipping at his heels.


	2. Chapter 2

The floor here in the Emperor’s private grounds was smaller than the arena, but larger than their training area. It was large and tall enough to let Nathan fly, but small enough to provide the intimacy that the Emperor desired. Peter could feel the sand shift under his sandals and regripped his sword carefully. There was no more room in his head or heart for worry from the earlier in the day, because the Emperor had requested his family be the ones to fight alongside him and Nathan. Meredith was at his left hand, her brother next to her. Claire was at Peter’s right, Nathan next to her. Family, blood and bone, birth to death, they’d face this challenge together. 

The Emperor gestured, and the gate on the opposite side opened wide. Growls vibrated the air, and three huge cats, nearly as big as horses and striped orange and black, leapt out, tails lashing. Claire admirably stifled a gasp at the sight of the tigers. They were terrible and beautiful, their claws enough to rend flesh from bone with a single strike.

“Fire!” Nathan called, springing to the air. Peter brushed his hand on Meredith’s elbow, absorbing her blessing, and joined her in flinging her golden flames, even as Flint hurled his own hot blue fire. The trained beasts shied away, but didn’t flee. Someone had prepared them for Bennet’s stable, that they should be able to face fire without fear. 

Claire gripped her spear and stood strong as Nathan took to the sky. He hurled his net at one beast, tangling the big cat in its weighted folds, while Claire flung her spear at another. It scored, scarlet blood staining the tiger’s magnificent coat and dripping down its shoulder. The third beast screamed at the impact of the flames, and sprang forward. Meredith and Flint ducked and rolled to either side, but Peter was a fraction too slow. He went down soundlessly, his blood flinging across the sands. Claire screamed to match the tiger, and Nathan shouted a wordless plea to the gods. Vulcan’s children turned their fire on the other tiger as Nathan scooped up Claire’s spear and hurled it into the beast crouched over his brother, Peter’s blood staining its claws from where it had torn open his side. The spear hit, lodging deep between the tiger’s ribs, and the cat turned from its prey with a scream. Claire took advantage of its distraction, snatched up Peter’s sword, and jumped on its back.

She landed astride to gasps from the audience, and plunged the blade into the tiger’s neck. Meredith and Flint didn’t let up their assault on their own cat for a moment, and Nathan, holding back from rushing to Peter’s side by a huge act of will, flung a javelin at the netted tiger with deadly accuracy. As the beasts collapsed, everyone rushed to Peter’s side, heaving the dead tiger off his broken body.

“Peter, no!” Claire cried, and grasped his bloody hand. Nathan’s heart was in his throat as his daughter all but willed her power into him. He dared not scream out in denial, not with the Emperor watching, but inside, he felt as his heart was dying.

Peter lay limply on the sands, but slowly his bleeding stopped, even as Meredith and Flint crouched next to him, turned back to back, hands flaming to defend them if the Emperor would be so cruel as to send another horror against them. The rents in Peter’s flesh closed, and with ruthless efficiency, Claire yanked his bones back into place. Moments later, Peter gasped back into life, his body stubbornly healing itself. A moment of breathless silence held sway, and then the small audience erupted in cheers. Dizzy and confused, Peter felt himself tugged to his feet to make his bow to the Emperor, then half-dragged off the sands.

It was only long moment later, when the Emperor’s slaves were stripping him of his bloody clothing and washing the blood from his body, that Peter could begin to think again.

“He was pleased. You alone are to attend him when you are clean,” Bennet said stonily.

\----------

The Emperor was “alone” this time, attended only by his cup-bearer and the ever-present Children of Proserpina. He needed no further guards, no additional displays of power. His presence alone, without his Imperial trappings, would have been enough to impress.

Peter walked forward at the Emperor’s crooked finger, feeling a faint, invisible pressure from one of his powers. To move things with will alone was the Emperor’s favorite ability, often displayed to the masses, meant to goad someone less willing than Peter. He paced until he reached the edge of the dais, and halted at the Children’s feet. They eyed him warily, their beautiful dark eyes void of any true feeling. 

Peter bowed and found himself straightening as unseen fingers tilted his chin up. The Emperor’s eyes were deep brown, velvet with danger.

“Such skill. Your family fought admirably,” he said.

Peter blushed, the gladiator in him embarrassed that his own performance had been so poor. If young Claire hadn’t gotten to him, he would have been food for tigers: an ignoble end for one who’d been fighting since he’d been six.

“They did well. I am proud of them,” Peter said, trying to keep himself at least looking as calm as Nathan would have. He missed his brother’s presence, his ability to appear as arrogant as a rich man, his confidence and secure manner, even despite what had happened this morning. Peter knew he couldn’t try to match the Emperor.

“Your Claire is just as magnificent as when I first saw her. Tell me, what does it feel like to heal?” he asked.

Peter swallowed, not knowing if anything he said could condemn Claire to the Emperor’s clutches. “Uncomfortable,” he said honestly. “It itches, and there is a sick feeling in my flesh when it knits itself back together. My bones ache and my head throbs until it is done.”

“Ah.” The Emperor put a world of meaning into the single syllable. “Not so clean and godly as it would seem from the sidelines.”

“No,” Peter said instantly. “Claire has shown her gift from infancy, and it is anything but clean.” He remembered her toddling across the sands, tugging a javelin from her side where a careless toss had gone astray, much to her parents’ horror. She carried the javelin around for years afterward, sleeping with it cradled in her arms at night.

“Still,” he murmured. “You can know this like no other man can. You can know exactly what the gods have placed in the bodies of their chosen.” He stretched out his hand and beckoned Peter closer. “Touch me.”

Peter clasped the Emperor’s hand, and gasped in shock. Those with gods-touched powers felt to him of their abilities, cool or swift or hot or strong as the case may be. But the Emperor was a whirlwind of possibilities, sensations blooming and dying under Peter’s hand in a dizzying array. His touch was as intoxicating as the best wine. Peter drank in the feeling as his own blessing reached for one of the Emperor’s powers. He broke away gasping, high color in his cheeks.

“Tell me what you felt,” the Emperor demanded, his voice dark and richly amused.

“All, everything.” Peter struggled with the words to describe such a novel sensation. “Endless potential, like I could embrace everything at once. It was…” Peter paused, and took a deep breath. “Incredible.”

“You understand.” The Emperor reached for Peter again, making him close his eyes to better feel the dozens of gifts available to him. It was as if Jove himself had come and given him his pick of anything in the world. 

“It is my gift, my blessing, to feel as another does,” Peter said dreamily, feeling half-drunk by the sensation.

“It is mine to understand another. It is that, even more than my blood, that makes me Emperor. I had not thought another gift existed that could sample the powers of the gods, until I learned of you.” The Emperor’s grip firmed. “Even more than Claire, you offer endless possibilities.”

“I am a free man,” Peter protested.

“No.” The Emperor’s grip became possessive. “You are mine. You are my subject, my citizen. You have little power but fame you scarcely use and patronage you all but scorn. You cannot deny me.”

“You won’t consume me, not like you did them,” Peter pointed to the Children. 

The Emperor loosed his grip to lay a hand on each of their shoulders. “What do you know of them?”

Peter considered for a moment, and then blundered ahead. “That they are twins, gifted with both poison and its cure. They’re from Spain, and it is said they could not control their gifts. You went to them there, spent a week alone with them, and now they’re as we see them.” He hesitated, and added, “We of the sands call them the Children of Proserpina.”

The Emperor stroked their dark hair as they looked back up at him with quiet adoration. “I like that name. They were called Maya and Alejandro, they are twins, and they are indeed from Spain. All you have said is true. They had lost control due to their passions and devotion to each other.

Peter kept himself from sucking in a breath in shock. They reminded him too much of himself and Nathan.

“I gave them a focus outside themselves, a way to harness their strength through me. I brought them out of a pain and fear-filled life, and they honor me for that.” But it wasn’t honor in the Children’s eyes, it was worship, as pure as if they had been making offerings at a temple. 

“As you say,” Peter said, bowing his head. 

The Emperor shifted forward to free his hand, catching Peter’s chin and forcing him to meet his eyes. “It _is_ as I say, Peter. Always.” Time seemed to slow. “You seek freedom, do you not? Freedom from poverty, from fear. From me.”

Peter nodded dumbly, the mouse before the serpent.

“What if you were to retire? Your brother and Claire’s mother could wed, her brother and daughter live in the same house, all together as family, with you. What would you do for them? Become a farmer? A horse trainer? A priest?” Peter shook his head, not trusting his voice. “Of course you don’t know. You’ve never had to think about it as a reality before. But you want to, don’t you? You want what all men do. Peace.”

Peter stiffened slightly. “Happiness. Not peace. I have fought too long to enjoy peace, even though I am not a soldier.”

In a time of peace, without the desperation of being gladiators, of gambling with their lives, he and Nathan would have never come to this. Never would Peter have thought to set his own happiness above his brother’s heir. In his heart of hearts, when he thought of happiness, he thought of him and Nathan together, forever. But that couldn’t happen. Should not. Blasphemous, wrong, unfair to Claire, to Meredith…

“I wish for you to serve me, Peter. Instead of Claire, I want you. Join my court, become of use to the Empire, and perhaps your family will have that happiness sooner than you think.”

“My Emperor-.” Peter stopped, knowing he really couldn’t refuse, but not certain if he could agree. Maybe his own gift could stall the Emperor’s excesses; maybe he could divert him from Claire. Maybe the gods were giving him a reprieve for once. For if he were in the Emperor’s court, he could not be with Nathan. Part of his heart cried out in denial, but another held to a vision in his mind of Nathan and Meredith and Claire, safe and happy. That should be the legacy of any man, the life of his heir and the continuation of his bloodline. That was proper in the eyes of the gods.

Also, there was a knowing glint in the Emperor’s eyes that frightened Peter. A shadowed threat that showed he had not forgotten nor dismissed the match between Peter and Nathan. He knew, if not everything, than something. Peter could either join with the Emperor, or suffer the full consequences of his passions. 

“I will give you leave to consider my offer during the entertainment to come,” the Emperor said with a thin smile, and clapped his hands. Suddenly a wave of slaves and servants poured into the room, carrying low couches, plump pillows, and trays of food and pitchers of drink. The rest of Bennet’s stable were chivvied into the room by the indefatigable Simone, most of them looking bewildered as musicians appeared and struck up a low and pleasing tune. None of them were prepared for this kind of treatment.

Before Peter could open his mouth to ask the Emperor about the entertainment, or even share more than the briefest of glances with Nathan or Bennet or anyone else, the rest of the Emperor’s court began to trickle in. Some few chose places to sit, but most of the others beckoned to slaves against the wall, demanding food, wine, or-. Peter didn’t recognize the long metal stick in the hands of young Gretchen at first, but after he caught of whiff of the smoke coming from the end, he realized what it was. Opium, a dreadfully expensive vice, but one sometimes enjoyed by high-ranking patrons of the sands. 

Peter licked his lips as the laughter began and the robes began to come off. The slaves here had been chosen for their graceful forms, the women for their well-formed breasts, and the men for their large penises. They were here to provide any sensual act required for one of the Emperor’s famous orgies. Peter felt blood rushing to his face; he’d only heard rumors, but such rumors tended to be lurid in their details. And by the gods, the details had been far short of reality! In mere moments, the room went from a place of power and danger to a place of pleasure. Bacchus himself would have been pleased.

The other gladiators hesitated only briefly, but rare was the time when they were given an opportunity to indulge themselves without retribution. Bennet flicked his eyes up to the Emperor, and then made a subtle gesture with his hand, freeing his stable to their own wills. But from the iron in Bennet’s eyes, it had less to do with giving his stock a reward and more with not snubbing the Emperor’s “generosity.”

Danger was as thick in the air as the pleasure, and Peter felt a tingle of arousal down his spine. Nathan, he knew, would feel the same. But Nathan didn’t know what the Emperor had asked of him. As in the High Priest’s house, Nathan was taking his strength from ignorance. And this time, Peter could not go to him. He dared not go to anyone, not with the Emperor’s attention burning into his back. And Nathan dared not seek him out, no matter the blithe decadence that surrounded him. Anything they gave the Emperor now was just another weapon for him to use against them, as he had during the fight with the tigers.

The music twined through the writhing crowd as the smoke thickened in the room, carrying both the scents of incense and the headier aroma of opium. Inhibitions loosened as the wine flowed freely, and Peter swallowed dryly as the orgy turned from tentative exploration to excited satiation. Dark Hawkins had found the flaxen-haired Niki, the courtesan who’d enjoyed his favors before, and both were wrapped around each other, half-heard encouragements punctuating their joyous reunion as they sank into silken cushions. That was, perhaps, the very tamest of the action Peter could see.

The High Priest of Jupiter had somehow managed to corner Daphne, despite her speed, and was whispering things in her ear that had her eyes glazing in a way that had nothing to do with the drugs. Color rose to her cheeks as his hands wandered across her body, a hard flush of arousal that Peter had felt once before. The High Priest’s blessing, his ability to see into the mind and manipulate it, could bring any person willingly to his side, or thrust them away from it. Daphne gasped from something he said, and her clothing dropped from her body in the blink of an eye. Another flicker of movement from the far side of the room brought Peter’s attention to Samuel, the Master of Revels. He had brought some of his own gods-blessed stable along, including the painted Lydia, who was a priestess of Fortuna, and the swift knife-master Edgar. 

There was an accord between the two free men, Peter could see it, and both were too cautious to expose themselves completely to the Emperor. So they’d chosen slaves to entertain the Emperor, to give themselves the time to watch the others at the orgy. Surely there was significance in who was here and who had absented themselves, who was enjoying themselves and who merely endured, and all of it information that those with power could use in the endless struggle for more power. The slaves were merely tools of convenience. Peter shuddered slightly as Zephyr-fast Daphne was released from the High Priest like an arrow from a bow, meeting Edgar with the fury of a storm. He could barely see their joining, so swift it was, just the vaguest glimpses of images, like pictures in the frescos. A kiss, a flash of hands on flesh, Daphne’s face contorted with pleasure, Edgar burying his face between her breasts, all in rapid succession, dreamlike in their disjointed swiftness.

Peter swallowed, knowing the two, both still slaves, had even less choice than he. Nor did Bennet have any defense against the High Priest of Jupiter interfering with his property. He sought out Bennet in the tableaux of writhing bodies, and found him seated on a couch, wine in his hand, seemingly enjoying the rhythmic music too much to take advantage of the pleasure slaves that thronged the room. But there was anger in the set of his shoulders, the line of his back, a stiffness that if Peter had seen it in another gladiator, would have set him on his guard. Bennet’s anger at Daphne’s casual use gave Peter a little more strength. 

Around the room, the members of the Emperor’s court moaned as they directed slaves to attend them, or wore smiles of smug self-satisfaction as they stroked or fondled another to a high peak of pleasure. Others used the decadent excess as cover for what they otherwise would never do. Peter felt a peculiar dread in his stomach as he sought Nathan in the crowd. Back and forth, over swells of buttocks and the grace of flung limbs, the curves of breasts and sweat-slicked manes of the revelers, Peter tried to find Nathan. And it was Meredith who led him to him. Her honey-colored hair was flung across a dark cushion, her tightly-muscled body arcing up into Nathan’s embrace. Peter swallowed dryly as he saw Nathan clutching her shoulders desperately, his heavy arms cradling her with the strength Peter knew so very well. They stared into each other’s eyes, her thighs flexing as she drove up to meet his thrusts in near-perfect harmony. Music carried away any sound they might have made, but their lips moved, whispering words to each other in their intimate embrace.

A cold lump formed in Peter’s stomach as he watched his brother, fear and jealousy gnawing at him with an almost physical pain. Hadn’t he and Nathan started because Nathan feared fathering another child into slavery? Rarely did Meredith have access to the herbs or compounds to prevent children, so Nathan had stayed away. And Peter had been willing to do anything to spare his brother the pain of keeping his desires at bay. Anything.

Choking, Peter wrenched his gaze away and hunted through the crowd for Claire. Somehow unmindful of the complex welter of emotions that plagued the rest of the stable, or simply able to thrust them aside with the carelessness of youth, Claire had become the center of attention of a small knot of admirers. To his surprise, Elle, the Gaul touched by Jupiter’s lightning, was worshipping his brother’s child, her tongue busy at the portal of Venus. Claire cried out, pushing towards Elle as she reached down to tug at her pale hair, clearly welcoming a familiar and wanted sensation. With a pang, Peter realized that it was not only he and Nathan who were keeping secrets. At Claire’s side was another woman, the dark-haired slave Gretchen that had so admired her. She suckled at Claire’s breasts with frantic devotion, her body twitching as Claire’s strong hand slipped between her thighs. Claire was no more stranger to sex than she was to violence, and was well-accustomed to both. What shame Peter had felt in every intimate moment he’d had for years had never touched her. 

The Emperor had been watching his court for long minutes, but suddenly abandoned his throne to loom behind Peter. Heat poured off his naked flesh, and Peter felt his own clothes suddenly unfasten to puddle on the floor beneath him. The Emperor’s arm snaked around Peter’s chest and pulled him flush, his mouth by Peter’s ear. The strength in that arm was irresistibly familiar. _Nathan,_ Peter’s body whispered, and he strangled a whimper as he leaned into the Emperor’s embrace.

“Magnificent, isn’t it? So much beauty and power, in so many ways. I find it soothing.” The Emperor’s voice was soft, rumbling, like that of a contented tiger, one that could, at any moment, turn and rip him apart. Over Peter’s shoulder, the Emperor flicked his eyes from one group to another, taking in the nuances. Though his grip on Peter remained firm, a subtle caress touched Peter’s skin with invisible fingers. Some were firm as the man bouncing a woman effortlessly in his grasp, others tickled and teased as a woman drove her lover to a frenzy of excitement. One by one, the Emperor played out each group’s desires on Peter’s flesh, the too-quick flickers of Daphne and Edgar, the joyful reunion of Hawkins and Niki, Claire’s intensity with her lovers, even Nathan and Meredith’s loving abandon. Peter could hear himself moaning as the pleasure rushed over him in as many different ways as the Emperor’s powers.

“Yes…” The Emperor’s voice caressed Peter’s ear as the invisible touches stopped, leaving Peter bereft of all but his hands. Gasping for stimulation, Peter didn’t even jump when he felt another’s arm slip between them, and soft fingers slicking the entrance to his body. His head lolled, and he twisted to see the Emperor’s cup-bearer, Luke, kneeling at his side. The boy furrowed his brow in concentration as he spread the heavy oils and withdrew his hand, looking back up at the Emperor hopefully.

Peter shuddered as his body relaxed, tingles chasing themselves down his spine. He felt so open now, needy, wanting, the only one not eating at a feast. He let himself indulge in his wantonness, letting every fiber of his body open itself up. He hadn’t missed that the Emperor had noticed Claire, even just a little, and needed to provide the ultimate distraction. The Emperor loomed behind him, his member seeking and then in an instant, filling him fully.

“Yes!” Peter’s cry and his easy welcoming of the Emperor into his body made the Emperor snarl in savage, wanton pleasure. He drove in deep and slow, pulling back on Peter so he was forced to bring his head up and take in all the glory of the orgy. The Emperor’s touch no longer made him feel drunk, but the infinite possibilities of him gave Peter unexpected shocks that broke him out of his pleasure-daze. He watched the others writhing on the cushions and couches, amidst the smoke and music, before the view of the most powerful man in Rome.

Peter watched Nathan’s tenderness with Meredith, Claire’s rare abandon with Elle, who cared for her, and Gretchen, who admired her, and felt something unfamiliar stir in him. A prescient view, almost as if he were an Oracle, seemed to cross his mind’s eye. It was a shocking moment of clarity, and he felt the burst of knowledge and insight with an almost physical pain. The sobbing breath he made only caused the Emperor to tighten his grip, and Peter leaned into the thrusts, crying out in passion to hide his revelation.

There was still love there, between Meredith and Nathan, a love as strong, though different, than what he and Nathan had shared for years. In that cradle of thighs and circle of arms had been soft expressions of care, of trust, a freedom in their pairing that he and Nathan could never have. Should Peter live to be a hundred, he and Nathan would never have that freedom. They could not live together, not like they had wanted in their most private dreams, not, and live any kind of decent existence. Claire would never be truly free of the Emperor as long as she stayed in Rome, and Peter dared not give the Emperor another weapon or weak spot that he could use against her.

Claire’s blessing was still running through his blood, and in that awful moment of clarity, Peter could see something so simple, so fundamental, that he couldn’t believe he’d missed it. And he cried with torment and pleasure as the Emperor filled him, as young Luke suckled his member, as his body spasmed in their grasp, and he realized what was to pass.

The Emperor’s grip around him became possessive, then almost painful as he raced towards his peak. Peter arced to meet him, feeling the endless blessings swelling and flaring through his hand, pressed against the Emperor’s. He growled in triumph as fire and ice, pain and pleasure, impossible strength and invisible touch surged between them, and Peter let himself go, gasping like a dying man as the pleasures of a hundred gods-touched dead poured between him and the ruler of Rome. The Emperor cried out his release as Peter clutched and held onto Claire’s gift, needing her healing as a balm against the pain he knew was coming.


	3. Chapter 3

The court was quiet now, deep into the evening. The slaves had departed, and only the Emperor’s closest companions remained with him. Peter was counted amongst them; his acceptance to the Emperor’s court was seen as only a matter of time. He ached to have gone home with the rest of Bennet’s stable, but didn’t dare try the Emperor’s temper, not today.

The Emperor was brooding in the aftermath of his pleasure, the Children of Proserpina slumped at his feet. His body-slave Luke was rubbing his shoulders, trying to encourage him into a better humor. Just beyond the dais, the courtesan Niki was discoursing with the High Priest of Jupiter, while Samuel, the Master of Revels, toyed with both Lydia and Edgar in a curtain-swathed corner, their soft moans barely heard over the faint singing of one of the artisan slaves. It seemed that the orgy did not truly end until the following day’s dawn, if at all.

“Come.” The Emperor gestured Peter forward, bringing him close to the Children. Those two had not participated in the orgy, but had remained at the back of the dais the entire afternoon. But now they looked up at Peter, their dark eyes showing the faintest hint of a spark, and leaned up against his thighs as one. Peter froze, heart in his throat, and the Emperor gestured for him to touch. Controlling the trembling in his hands, Peter reached down to pet their hair as the Emperor did, feeling utterly strange to be petting a human as he would a cat.

“You seemed to enjoy yourself well enough,” the Emperor said, his voice parting the lamp-lit dimness like a knife through flesh. “But I think I startled you this afternoon with my offer.”

“I do not know how to serve you,” Peter said honestly, fear jumping in his throat at a return to the Emperor’s earlier question.

“You will learn,” the Emperor said curtly. “I have need of you. My allies send me their ambassadors, and I need you to speak to them.”

Peter grabbed for the opportunity to speak his mind. “My Emperor, I do not know how to be an ambassador.” 

“You do not need to. I do not care what you say to them. I only want you to touch them. I must know if another gods-touched is coming into my court.”

“If they are offended by me…” Peter hesitated, not wanting the Emperor to know his fear. He who showed fear in the arena was the first to fall. And here the consequences were greater than that of simple injury. Here, Peter would be no simple entertainer; his influence could not be safely dismissed, because he’d be seen as the Emperor’s hand.

The Emperor leaned forward and grabbed Peter’s hand, making him shudder anew with the shock of his blessings rushing under Peter’s touch. “If my allies or enemies send the gods-blessed to me to test me, I must know. If not, I will deal with them differently. I know you could tell; I have seen it in many of your fights on the sands. I felt it today. You could feel all my blessings, and I could sense the strength of your own gift.”

Peter nodded warily, only in understanding, but the Emperor did not let go. “There is a reward for you, if you serve me.”

Peter felt ice stab his gut, and wondered if the Emperor could see what he was thinking. That the Emperor contemplated murder and intimidation, Peter did not doubt for a second. For a brief second, the possibility of betrayal had flared within him. Surely the High Priest of Jupiter would be intrigued at the secrets Peter could tell him about the Emperor, in exchange for omens of dire consequence were he to use Peter’s knowledge to frighten his allies and enemies into submission.

“What reward?” Peter whispered.

“Freedom and prosperity for your family. Money and land to live out their days in plenty, in a place where their blessings would cause no jealousy, and no official would plague them.”

Peter felt the shock like a blow. Everything he could have wanted, granted at the Emperor’s request. It would be worth more than his life for such security, to bring his family out from under the Emperor’s gaze. Though Rome was their home, Claire would not be safe until she was out of his immediate reach, and Peter knew it. He had managed to distract the Emperor from her today, but he hadn’t missed the Emperor’s continuing fascination with her ability to heal herself. He’d seen the avarice in the Emperor’s eyes when Peter had returned to life from the tiger’s claws. Nor would Nathan ever be free unless he and Peter were separated.

And for those foreigners that sent their own gods-blessed to the Emperor’s court? Peter could protect them too, warn them of how to deal with the Emperor so that they would not need to fear him. This one chance could give him everything he ever wanted, if he was willing, and had strength enough to bear his choice.

 _The gods put omens in our path, and we ignore them at our peril,_ he thought.

But still, he feared, and hesitated. 

Peter felt the Children’s hands suddenly begin to creep under the hem of his tunic, their powers surging against his blessing, poison and balm. There was a cruel smile on the Emperor’s face, like that of a smile child torturing an insect, and Peter realized his answer had been too late. He buckled into their grasp, feeling his eyes darken with Maya’s poison, then clear when Alejandro brushed his hand against Peter’s forehead. He hovered on the edge of death, unable to see, but able to hear when the Children put their mouths against his ear.

“You’ve made him happy,” Maya whispered. “That is rare. You can do more than you know with that. You can save many.”

“How?” Peter mouthed silently, his body trembling in a mockery of passion as the poison and cure warred in his blood. Claire’s gift rallied to fight it, but Peter was drained from the long night in the Emperor’s embrace.

“So many of our kind used to paint the floor with blood. Those that challenged the Emperor, those that simply tried to show off to him, and those he desired, he slaughtered, until we came,” Alejandro murmured.

“The Emperor came to us, wanting to know our secrets, willing to kill to get them. We had killed everyone around us by trying to keep our secret. Our family, our friends, everyone dying, until he came. Then we understood what was happening, that Proserpina favored us, that we were Charon’s slaves. He asked us if we were ready to die.” Maya clutched Peter’s arm hard, sending another wave of sick weakness through him as Alejandro took up the thread of their tale.

“Our family suffered because we could not let go. But we learned, we sacrificed our service, our lives, to stopping death.”

Peter gaped at them, the story too familiar, the implications as staggering as a blow to the head. “The Emperor need not kill the blessed outright now, not those who challenge him. We can punish them without death. Let him slake himself and his passions with his chosen ones and he will leave the others be. We prevent death, just by being here.”

Maya leaned right over him, her mouth against his. “That is why we worship him. Alone, we are killers, selfish. Together, we are Rome.”

The Children’s hands retreated, and Peter sat up, gasping and trembling in every limb. But when he spoke his answer to the Emperor, it was not out of fear, but out of hope, that he made his choice.

\----

Peter wished with all his heart he could have done this in the confines of the arena. He wanted to be back with Nathan in the weapons’ room, hold his face in his hands and tell him like they’d shared dozens of other dire secrets. But he couldn’t. The Emperor was jealous of his new acquisitions, and Peter didn’t dare do anything to draw his attention back to his family, not when he was finally going to be able to get them out of harm’s way.

Nathan hesitated at the entrance to the elegantly-appointed room, cool and shaded, decorated with fine frescos and carved couches, utterly unlike the two of them. To see Peter in the fine robes of an Imperial servant while he remained in the worn, short tunic of a fighter was an imbalance he’d never thought to see.

“Peter? Bennet wouldn’t tell me what’s going on-.”

“I have something for you,” Peter said quickly, trying to get the words out before sorrow stopped his tongue. He knew he was staring, drinking in every nuance of Nathan’s face, every line, every scar, every expression, storing it inside him against the loneliness to come. He held up the elegant scroll sealed with the Emperor’s seal. “Property and funds for a large manor in the north. It’s big enough for you and Meredith, Claire, Flint, and as many others who can buy themselves free. It’s good grain country, so I’m told, and good land for cattle.”

Nathan looked from the scroll to Peter and back again. Peter could see the slowly dawning realization on his face, from confusion, to shock, to disbelief, to fury.

“You’re staying?” Nathan asked, his voice on the brittle edge of shouting. “Peter, you can’t. He’s mad, he’s ruthless! What he wanted to do to Claire; Peter he’ll _kill_ you! You have to get away, we have to leave-.”

“And do what, Nathan?” Peter asked, catching Nathan’s wrists as he tried to physically pull Peter out of the room. “Where can we go that he can’t find us? If we ran, we’d take everyone, wouldn’t we?”

“Of course. Bennet said that if we couldn’t protect Claire, we could run. We’ll go, we’ll all go, we can find someplace safe, somewhere away from Rome. We can all protect each other, save Claire, keep each other from harm.” Nathan had a fanatic gleam in his eyes, a desperate, manic energy that meant he was moments from doing something monumentally foolish. He was like that when Peter was in danger, those moments he thought his brother might be taken away from him and he could make it better. 

“How, Nathan?” Peter asked, hearing the tightness in his voice and loathing himself for it. “What can we do? We do not have enough money for land, we do not know any other trade but that of the sword! We do not even have money enough for teaching or learning! That was why we didn’t run in the first place, because we knew we’d end up miserable and dying alone!”

“We can try! I won’t let you go, Peter. I won’t let this happen. I can offer myself in your place; you can help Claire-.”

“No! Nathan, you can’t!”

“I am stronger than you-.”

“Yes, you can beat me on the sands, the gods know. But not here. You’ve been a slave, but not a thrall. Bennet has treated us with respect. The Emperor will not. You would kill yourself for honor before a week had gone by, Nathan, I know it,” Peter said.

“I am not so weak!” Nathan snarled, tightening his grip.

Peter wanted to tell Nathan the truth of their display in the High Priest of Jupiter’s chamber, to show him that his strength had been not in humiliation, but in pride, but knew he would never be believed. But Nathan would believe this.

“Everything you have done, you did to keep this family safe, to make sure Claire would live. What I did… was only for you. Let me help Claire now, by getting all of you beyond the Emperor’s reach for all time.”

It wasn’t quite true; that Nathan loved his daughter, Peter didn’t doubt for a second, but for all his care, he’d never had to seriously worry about her safety before the Emperor had taken an interest. Peter had already paid a heavy price for his brother’s child, but now it was time for Nathan to become a true father, a patriarch, so Claire could have a safe haven.

“I can’t be nobility,” Nathan said, shaking his head.

“You have to! Nathan, Claire needs you.”

“She doesn’t. Peter, she’s strong. She could take to this life far more easily than I. I barely remember being free.” 

Peter could hear the defeat in Nathan’s voice, and used his words to goad him into fighting again, this time for the right cause.

“She doesn’t even have that much,” Peter said flatly. “She’s never been anything other than a slave. _Teach_ her, Nathan.” He hesitated, uncertain if he could keep control, and took Nathan by the shoulders. “She’ll be the one to honor us while we’re gone. She’s our only heir, our legacy. Learn for her sake.”

“Not without you,” Nathan said, softly, urgently.

“I can’t go. If I go, the Emperor has nothing to keep him distracted, no one to intrigue him.” Peter’s breath caught as he forced himself to go on. “If I go with you, we wouldn’t stop. One day, someone would find out. Claire doesn’t need to know. And how could you marry Meredith if I were there?”

“It’s you, Peter, it’s always been you.” The look in Nathan’s eyes had Peter clutching his shoulders in a possessive iron grip. Peter thought of the fear in Claire’s eyes, the half-madness in the Emperor’s, and pressed onward, even as his heart was breaking.

“No! It was Meredith. You loved her and still do. I started what we had together because you were so miserable.”

“So that was what all these years were, misery?” Nathan asked softly.

Peter couldn’t speak, his throat choked with words unsaid.

“I love you.” Nathan’s simple statement rung with every conviction of truth.

“Gods.” Peter broke. “Gods, I do too, more than I can bear. But we can’t. Claire needs our strength to become as strong as she has to be. You can give her the life she deserves. I can give her the time to live it in freedom.”

“Peter…” Nathan took his shoulders in return, his calloused hands warm. “Come with me.”

For a moment, nothing else mattered; years of comfort and love, however forbidden, overrode the new revelations from the Emperor’s court. 

A ray of sunlight suddenly pierced into the room, and Peter felt its warmth on their skin. It was as if Apollo had come to give him strength, for another instant with only Nathan touching him and he would have been lost.

“You have to go. Be a father for Claire. Love Meredith, marry her. Remember me. Please,” Peter whispered.

Nathan drowned his sob in a fierce kiss, a battle of lips that went from a desperate struggle to a soft and tear-filled pressure between them. The warmth of sunlight faded, and Nathan finally pulled away.

“Come home Peter, some day.”

Peter opened his eyes to see Nathan stride from the room, back straight, head up, holding the Emperor’s reward with all the arrogance of a noble born. He smiled after his brother, and turned back towards the Emperor’s court.

\------

_Forty years later…_

The farm was prosperous, the grain heavy and ripe, the vines laden with fruit. The house was magnificent, large enough for Nathan and Meredith’s family, not to mention another dozen freed slaves.

Peter smiled sadly as he walked up the road, tears misting his eyes as he came to the shrine outside the manor house. Carvings had been made there, of a sternly handsome man, and of a bright-eyed woman, the once lord and lady of this place.

“Nathan,” he whispered, and pressed his hand against the stone. Ten years dead, long enough for the pain to have faded, for the old desire to have subsided, for Peter’s grief to have come to an end. Time enough to be proud of the pain he’d endured, to have smiled at the reports of prosperity, to cheer at Lyle Bennet’s stable on the sands, and to bet heavily so that more of his slaves could free themselves to come here. Time enough to have blunted the Emperor’s desires until age had taken him. Time enough for the Emperor’s son to grow without his father’s twisted nature. Time enough for all who had remembered him to die.

Peter continued up the road, slaves scrambling to alert the lady of the house that a guest had arrived from Rome. His breath caught when she emerged, elegant in her fine robes and jewelry. She looked only a few years older than when he’d last seen her a lifetime ago, a just-flowering woman on the edge of maturity, but with incredible dignity in her eyes.

“Peter,” she whispered, and flung herself at him, hugging him fiercely, her shoulders shaking. Claire let go of him to kiss him and them hold him again. “Oh gods, Peter!” she said. “You’re here!”

“I’m here, I’m here, I’m here…” Peter said softly, over and over again, holding her tight. 

She didn’t let him go for many long moments, and then only to look at him from arm’s length. “You held it, my blessing…”

“Not always, but most times,” Peter said, eyes closed briefly in remembrance of some of Emperor Sylar’s more twisted pleasures. The fight with the tigers had seemed a scratch in comparison some days. 

“How? I haven’t been back to Rome since we left!”

“I remembered you, Claire. I remembered you, and the gods let me have your blessing. I promised myself I’d come back to you once you were truly safe.”

“Safe?” There was both sadness and joy on her face, the bittersweet knowledge of the price her family had paid for her freedom.

“Emperor Sylar is dead.” 

Claire seemed stunned for a moment, then gasped, tears springing from her eyes, crying and shaking at the same time. “Sweet gods, blessed be I and all my kin. Thanks to you for your forbearance; it is over.” 

Peter put his hand on her shoulder, knowing what she was feeling. He’d stopped and sacrificed lavishly to nearly every temple and shrine on the way out of the city, needing the gods to know their kindness was acknowledged.

“His son reigns now, and with a much gentler hand. I helped raise him,” Peter said. Spare words, but enough for Claire to figure out the rest of the story. So long he’d been in the Emperor’s household that it had been easy for him to go where he wished, and to drop words of compassion in the young ears of the heir apparent.

“I knew you would,” Claire said.

“The others from the stable found their way here?”

“Yes, of course! Lyle Bennet sent each one our way as they bought themselves free. No one, bandit or other, dares attack our estate, now that they know the measure of our people.” Claire drew herself up haughtily at that, and Peter smiled at the thought of some foolish roving freebooter attempting the boarders where every guard and field hand had both combat training and the blessing of a god.

“You’re doing so well,” Peter said, looking around at the elegant manor house. He’d only heard descriptions of it, but they failed to do it justice.

“I have grand-nieces and –nephews I’m training to run the estate,” she said matter-of-factly. “They scarcely need my advice anymore, so clever they are.”

“Nieces…?” Peter blinked in confusion. “Meredith?”

“Had four more children, and all lived to have little ones of their own. I’d never seen her so happy. She died surrounded by her family, Nathan at her side.”

“Nathan?” he whispered.

“Was so proud some days I thought he’d burst. He took to country life like he’d been born to it, his children working at his side. He spent nearly every day in the fields…” she hesitated, and then added, “It’s been ten years ago today.”

Peter took a deep breath, and found no tears. He’d shed too many over the past forty years.

“Do you want to meet my family?”

“Yes,” he said instantly. “Just after I…”

“The garden out back.” She knew. Of course she knew. 

Peter walked through the cool house, with its tile floors and frescos the equal of any in Rome. Nathan had learned, and his daughter after him. The estate was wealthy. Servants quietly took themselves out of his path, or subtly directed him to the garden.

The walls outside gleamed with their painted colors in the brilliant sunshine, with a riot of flowers and grasses softening the stone walk between them. At the back of the garden, Peter could see a familiar face. A small mock-up of the arena sands took up the back half of the garden, with a beautifully carved statue of Nathan at his prime at one end, facing Rome. Niches on the back wall held busts of husband and wife, of fighting friends long gone, but this… this was for Peter. Nathan was carved in his arena leathers, a smile on his marble lips, and Peter felt the familiar stab of love that had never truly left him.

He smiled back at Nathan as Claire appeared on the portico, and finally spoke.

“I’m home, Nathan. And I’m never leaving again.”


End file.
